Cold lake water lapped softly against the rocks, producing a steady, rhythmic sound that echoed through the night.
Tamara stood alone on the muddy shore, her slender figure wrapped in a hooded black cloak. She didn't bother casting a lighting spell. Her eyes, long accustomed to darkness, saw everything clearly—the rippling water, the drifting mist, and most importantly, the pitiful figure writhing near the edge of the lake.
Quirrell wasn't dead.
But he was close enough that the distinction hardly mattered.
His soaked robes clung to his body like torn rags, heavy and useless. The turban that once concealed the horror on the back of his head was gone, revealing a flattened, scarred surface—hideous marks left behind after the violent removal of the parasitic soul that had once inhabited him.
He lay sprawled in the mud, coughing violently as he struggled to crawl toward the distant silhouette of the forest. Every movement was driven by raw, instinctive fear.
He had to escape.
Escape the school. Escape the headmaster. Escape—
Her.
"Where do you think you're going, Professor Quirrell?"
The cold voice descended from above him like a blade.
Quirrell froze.
Slowly, trembling, he lifted his head. His eyes widened in terror as he saw her standing there, looking down at him.
Under the pale moonlight, Tamara's small, delicate face appeared unnervingly lifeless. Her black eyes held no warmth—only a chilling, inhuman calm.
"No… no… please don't kill me…"
Quirrell scrambled backward, slipping in the mud as he tried to put distance between them. His voice broke into desperate pleas.
"I didn't see anything—I swear! I know nothing! Please—"
"Be quiet."
Her voice was soft.
Yet it carried a weight that crushed all resistance.
Quirrell fell silent instantly, as if an invisible hand had seized his throat. The instinct to obey—deeply ingrained after a year of submission—overrode his panic.
Tamara studied him without expression.
He was pathetic. Weak. A coward through and through.
But—
Useful.
An adult wizard, trained in the darker branches of magic, and more importantly… a man who was already considered dead.
To the outside world, he no longer existed. That made him ideal.
"It seems your master didn't think you were worth taking along," she said lightly, the faintest hint of mockery curling at her lips. "He abandoned you."
Quirrell's expression dimmed. He couldn't deny it.
He had given everything—his body, his will, his very soul.
And in the end, he had been discarded like refuse.
"But I'm different."
Tamara reached into her cloak and pulled out a small crystal vial. Inside, a red liquid shimmered faintly.
Without ceremony, she tossed it toward him.
The vial landed beside his mud-covered hand.
"Drink."
Quirrell stared at it, then back at her.
"What is this…?"
"Poison," she replied flatly. "It will let you die faster."
His hand trembled.
But then—something shifted.
He saw it in her eyes. That faint glint of amusement.
Understanding dawned.
Without another word, he uncorked the vial and drank it in one gulp.
Warmth spread through his body instantly. The numbness in his limbs receded, replaced by strength. His breathing steadied. The suffocating chill of death withdrew.
It wasn't poison.
It was a high-grade restorative potion.
Tears welled in his eyes, mixing with the mud beneath him.
"Why…" he rasped. "Why save me?"
"Because you're useful."
The answer came without hesitation.
"I want you to serve me."
Tamara stepped closer, lifting his chin with the tip of her wand so he was forced to meet her gaze.
"Your old master cast you aside. So now… you'll have a new one."
Her voice softened, but the pressure behind it intensified.
"I can protect you. I can grant you power."
She leaned in slightly.
"And I can give you something else… revenge."
Quirrell stared into her eyes.
What he saw there was darker—far darker—than anything he had witnessed before. More stable. More complete.
More terrifying.
He had always been weak. He needed something stronger to cling to.
And now, that strength stood before him.
"I… I am willing…"
His voice shook as he bowed his head, pressing his lips to the mud-stained tip of her shoe.
"Master…"
"Good."
She withdrew her wand with visible distaste, as if brushing away something unpleasant.
"Listen carefully."
"You can't stay here. You'll be hunted soon."
"I want you to go to Albania."
Quirrell flinched.
That place…
It was where everything had begun. Where his nightmare had taken root.
"There's a forest there," Tamara continued, her tone lowering slightly. "Deep within it is a hidden camp. A man named Peritus is guarding something for me. Along with others who are waiting."
She paused.
"And your former master will return there. Sooner or later."
Her eyes sharpened.
"I want you to watch him."
"If he tries to interfere… if he approaches what belongs to me…"
Her voice turned cold.
"Drive him away."
Quirrell's eyes widened.
"Drive him away? But I—"
"He's nothing right now," she cut in dismissively. "A wandering fragment. Weak."
Her gaze hardened.
"If you can't even deal with that, then you're useless to me."
Quirrell trembled.
Memories surged—of humiliation, of pain, of being nothing more than a vessel.
And then—
Of being abandoned.
Something inside him twisted.
Fear gave way to resentment.
Then resentment burned into hatred.
"I understand…"
His voice steadied.
"If he appears… I'll make him regret it."
His fingers clenched tightly.
"I'll tear him apart."
Tamara observed him, satisfied.
Yes.
That was better.
She picked up a smooth black stone from the ground and tapped it lightly with her wand.
The stone twisted, reshaping itself with a faint grinding sound. Within seconds, it had transformed into a black badge.
Etched into its surface was a grotesque symbol—a serpent emerging from a skull.
"Take it," she said, tossing it to him. "They'll recognize it."
Quirrell caught it with both hands, clutching it tightly.
"Go."
Tamara turned away, her cloak sweeping through the air.
"Don't disappoint me."
Her voice drifted back, calm and final.
"Next time… I won't bother saving you."
Quirrell bowed deeply toward her retreating figure.
Then, without hesitation, he turned and vanished into the darkness.
Tamara exhaled slowly.
Everything had gone perfectly.
A loose end tied off. A useful piece placed on the board.
She adjusted her cloak, preparing to return unnoticed.
Then—
A sound.
A stifled laugh.
Her body went still.
Her hand moved instantly toward her wand as her gaze sharpened.
"Who's there?"
"Ah… looks like we've been spotted."
"Yeah, guess we need to work on our hiding spells."
Two identical red-haired heads popped out from behind a nearby rock.
The twins.
Tamara's eyes narrowed.
What had they seen?
Her grip tightened.
If necessary—
But then—
"Relax, Your Majesty," one of them said with a grin. "We just caught your… performance."
"Performance?" she repeated, frowning.
"Of course!" the other chimed in, mimicking her dramatic tone. "'Go… don't disappoint me… or I'll feed you to the lake monster…'"
They burst into laughter.
Tamara froze.
From their perspective…
There had been no Quirrell.
No conversation.
Just her—standing alone in the mist, delivering ominous lines to empty air.
"…."
For a moment, she said nothing.
Then—
"You idiots."
Her voice came out tight.
"That was rehearsal."
"Ohhh, rehearsal," they echoed knowingly.
"Drama club?" one added.
"Definitely drama club," the other agreed.
Their expressions made it clear they believed none of it.
Laughter broke out again.
"Shut up!"
A spell shot toward them.
They dodged easily and bolted, still laughing as they ran.
"Brilliant acting!"
"Can't wait for the performance!"
Their voices faded into the distance.
Silence returned.
Tamara stood still, her face burning.
This—
This feeling—
It was unfamiliar. Unacceptable.
She closed her eyes.
Slowly, methodically, she constructed a barrier within her mind.
Suppressing.
Sealing.
Eliminating.
When she opened her eyes again, the emotion was gone.
Replaced by cold, perfect stillness.
"Drama rehearsal…"
A faint sneer appeared.
"Convenient."
She turned and walked back toward the castle.
Tonight had been productive.
And she was, indeed—
In a very good mood.
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